Unforgivable
by Magic Flying Spud
Summary: The Aurors will one day catch up with Draco so he must arm himself to escape a hypothetical Azkaban. He's not going to wallow in self-pity like his father, he's going to find a way out because there always is one. He tries to form a Patronus. Without words and without a wand. Just like trying to kill Dumbledore: quite unfashionable.


The war is assumptively over but the Malfoys wouldn't know anything about that. They've been on the run ever since Potter confronted The Dark Lord in The Great Hall. Ever since a filthy blood traitor murdered dearest Aunt Bellatrix. Ever since The Dark Lord vanquished his own servant, Severus. Ever since Potter died and rose from the dead — because Potter cheats. Doesn't matter how remarkably untalented and half-witted he is: he wins. Every time.

It's sad living out of a pathetic little tent sealed away deep within a forest. Narcissa despises it the most. Lucius is already somewhat used to spending his days making forlorn looks at things that have no consequence. Draco feels sorry for them so he amuses his parents with his most classic stories about Potter. Draco's always been a good storyteller. He knows how to work a crowd, and he knows just what everyone thinks is funny — it helps that his audiences tend to be a bit more lowbrow, and he's very much aware of that.

Mother and Father still think themselves members of the elite; they love cautionary tales about hubris and misguided power. Perhaps it's only Draco that sees the irony. But the Malfoys can never get enough of his stories. They laugh until they cry, they laugh like they're not living out of a tent.

Draco laughs a little too, but not as much. His cheeks flush when the wine slips down his throat, his gray eyes hang on his father's teeth for a little too long. Why does Father find this all so funny? Doesn't he realize that Potter's a hero? Lucius isn't even an emblem to _their _side of the war anymore. Just a tool, more laughing stock than Pettigrew.

Utter madness to think that stupid Potter really is the Chosen One. But again, even the Dark Lord deluded himself enough to believe that tall tale. Hrm. Draco hated Potter ever since the beginning and when they ended up on opposing sides of history with each swing of the pendulum, it made sense.

Draco believed himself to be Potter's arch-foe. _Neither can live while the other survives. _It's the only thing that makes the torture bearable. Draco unwillingly performs two of the Unforgivable Curses in the name of the Dark Lord. It makes him want to die but he does it. Then Potter pops back up from obscurity and threatens to destroy everything Draco has made sacrifices for and he knows it's time to complete the trinity.

But then Crabbe dies. Crabbe actually _dies_. Is _that _what Draco had joked about with such braggadocio for so long? The actual death of someone? Are the other Slytherins as bloodthirsty as this? Crabbe is a fool. He does himself in — _fiendfyre?_ Really?

Draco still wants to kill Harry Potter. It's the one thing no other Death Eater — not even Severus or Crouch — can manage. He'd be celebrated, perhaps it could even redeem the Malfoy name. Ah, but no. Harry saves Draco's life instead. Because at the end of it, Draco Malfoy is as significant to Potter as any other bloody Death Eater. His true arch foe is The Dark Lord. Draco is nobody.

Draco stretches his cheeks hard, teeth crinkling into a crescent moon. A fold in his chin and a forced sparkle to the eye. Clinks the wine glass with his father's. With his mother's. Potter jokes aren't very funny anymore.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy is a chatterbox when in his domain. He oozes wealth and prestige into every social circle he breaks into. Lucius saunters into a fundraiser with cane in hand and his voice booms. It's low and rustic, cracks apart at each sound, and he takes delicious pride in that, enunciating each syllable with such relish. His eyes move faster than his croak, challenging all listeners to become impatient with him and walk off. But no one shirks Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.

When the Dark Lord rises, Lucius is one of the first to arrive and drop a knee. He does think that the Dark Lord's acts are sometimes — theatrical. Perhaps too deadly, but he loathes Mudbloods and blood traitors like the rest of them and if the Dark Lord is to elevate the upper crust like him?

Ha. Well. Can't make an omelette. Hmhm.

But The Dark Lord has no use for Lucius. So for months, Lucius is silent, set dressing to the true monarch, and he plays the part well. Skin pales, teeth yellow, blond locks split and fray, hands clench no matter the occasion, and eyes splinter into red.

It is surprising one afternoon when Lucius is the first of the family to speak that day.

"So Narcissa…." he whispers, yet his voice still booms. "How did you come to gather that Potter was dead when he was obviously still alive?"

Narcissa's ears prick up and a shine glimmers across her eyes. She sniffs and Draco turns..

Narcissa's dry lips press together and she speaks, "I asked Harry if our Draco was still alive and he promised me he was."

Draco's face flushes and he exchanges a look with his father. Something that says _I didn't know_. Then Draco flinches. Look back to his mother and her eyes are still turned to Lucius. Because she doesn't _need_ to look at Draco for him to understand.

It's a small detail that Draco notices change as everything collapses….

* * *

When Lucius approaches Narcissa from behind, as silently as he may glide across the room, she never — _ever_ — looks past her shoulder to witness him. Because she trusts he is there. As he does the same for her.

But then there is the Department of Mysteries. The arrest. The Unbreakable Vow. These endless threads of dark magic twisting and intertwining, all to protect —

— well, ultimately nothing.

The Dark Lord makes himself a permanent guest of Malfoy Manor, and something changes between his parents. If Narcissa is to be standing in the doorway, talking to her son, and Lucius approaches from behind, she will check to see if he is there.

Of course Lucius is there. But it is the principle of it all.

But now when Draco comes to his mother, she won't look because she trusts that he has her back.

* * *

Draco senses a row coming so he hastily gets to his feet, shuffling out of the tent. A little flicker in Lucius' arched eyebrow and Draco freezes, sitting himself back down.

A sort of wall flares up between all three parties. Draco sinks deeper into the cushion and Narcissa only stands taller.

Lucius on the other hand doesn't even flinch.

"...I see," he says with some finality.

* * *

"I'm leaving."

It comes out of nowhere. If anyone, Draco thinks he'd be the first to snap but it winds up being his mother. She cranes her long, white neck high, eyelids half-closed. It's her attempt to look regal but really she just looks like a corpse.

Lucius merely sputters and Narcissa marches past him.

Draco looks his mother and almost grabs her hand. But he can't. Not with Father in this state. Disheveled and unkempt. Lucius needs them, though he'll never admit that….

"I need you."

Oh. Or maybe he will admit that then. Rightio. Good one, Dad.

Lucius' cold gaze meets his wife's. The black robes seem so out of style now.

"I — " Narcissa's jaw shudders. " — I don't know what to say."

Lucius' eyes widen in their mania. "Yes. You do."

She looks away from the two of them, head still held proudly. "I saved the Potter boy. They won't put me in Azkaban."

"Of course they won't," Lucius sneers. "But you do not get to associate the Malfoy name with those blood traitors."

Narcissa stares back, eyes still wide and shining. Draco thinks she might cry but she doesn't. The wrinkles just cut into her round face a little deeper. "Very well," she rasps and exits the tent.

* * *

Draco and Lucius move often. Farther and farther away from home, their course erratic. The first time they Apparate, Draco cries and digs his fingers into mud just to feel something. Lucius says nothing while he throws up the standard wards.

Draco resumes his studies. Not that Hogwarts will allow him back, but he feels like he hasn't learned a damned thing since sixth year. He asks his father to teach him — but Lucius merely groans into the palm of his hand.

"Fine," Draco snaps, jumping to his feet. "If you want to sit here and stew in your misery, go ahead, old man. But I'm going to make something of myself, you understand?!"

Lucius' white eyes give his son the once over. He wheezes once and sighs before resuming his brooding.

Pathetic.

Draco leaves the tent and returns later with several stolen library books. He mostly focuses on his potions. Potions give him an excuse to leave the tent at least. Gather supplies. He likes to think that Severus would approve. But Severus is dead. Apparently he is a traitor too. A triple agent, they say.

Did Severus even like him? Draco thought he was the man's star pupil

But now? Perhaps Draco was just a pawn. Like Crabbe and Goyle were to him. His cheeks redden while he brews NEWT level potion.

Never again.

* * *

It's bone chillingly cold but really it's the only time it's safe to go out and practice some _real_ magic. None of this make-things-float-and/or-turn-into-other-things Hogwarts workarounds to _actual, pragmatic skills_.

Meaning: Draco is blowing shit up.

Sparks fly and ka-boom, there goes a tree stump. Bam, there goes a rock. Draco sneers. It's very cathartic.

"_Expelliarmus!_"

Not Draco's voice. He turns on his heel, instinctively bracing himself, preparing a Stunning Spell but his wand is out of his hands before he knows it. It arcs through the black sky and lands in his father's outstretched hand.

Lucius considers his son for a moment and says, "You embarrass me. Additionally, you are far out of bounds of my wards. You are to remain under my roof, Draco."

Draco walks up to his father and yanks the wand from his arm, the bone thin, white fingers still clasped like a talon.

Draco rolls his eyes at Lucius. "What roof?"

Lucius suppresses a chuckle.

* * *

Draco never really paid attention to Defense Against the Dark Arts. He always saw it as something extra-curricular. Now though? He wishes he paid better attention. Maybe he could have avoided being a sniveling servant hoisted up from the floor to _Crucio _some poor Muggle.

That's right: _poor _Muggle. Undeserving. Blood superiority is a ridiculous concept. Especially with the in-breeding. Disgusting.

Draco has never quite had the opportunity to test it, but he is sure he'd be a good Occlumens. The compartmentalizing of his mind is how he has gotten this far. As for Legilimency? Probably not. Draco doesn't really _get_ people, though he is slowly working on it.

He's thankful that his father is so thoroughly untalented in the ways of magic. If Father could probe Draco's mind like Severus might, he would find something absolutely repulsive: this sympathy for Muggles. Yes, yes. After all this time, _now_ he understands.

Draco doesn't know how his father might retaliate, but there'd at least be a row. So Draco keeps his mouth shut and focuses on his training while he has the space for it. They can't run forever.

Draco tried to kill Albus Dumbledore, an action that proves to be quite unfashionable with the new-old government back in power. He let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He tortured people for the Dark Lord and had himself branded with a Dark Mark. He may be young but he's not stupid; he's going to Azkaban the second the Aurors find them. There's no fighting it.

Unlike his mother, Draco has contributed nothing of nobility to this war. But he's not going to wallow in self-pity like his father. He's going to find a way out because there always is one.

So he arms himself to escape. He tries to form a Patronus. _Without _words and _without_ a wand. Just like trying to kill Albus, quite unfashionable.

* * *

Draco remembers when the Sorting Hat declares him to be a Slytherin, and all his anxieties of being a Hufflepuff fizzle away.

This is the memory that triggers his first corporeal Patronus, but it fades fast.

* * *

Draco remembers cursing that Weasley boy in second year. _Slugs_! The boy is actually vomiting _slugs!_

This doesn't even provoke a spark from his sweaty hands.

* * *

Draco remembers the elation he feels in learning how much trouble he's landed Hagrid in.

Hmph. Nothing.

Why don't these memories work? Perhaps it's because he's not using his wand….

* * *

Turns out happiness is complicated. Because Draco doesn't remember being happy during this memory. But it's when his mother leaves them behind. He remembers how tall she stands, how powerful and unrelenting her voice is.

Narcissa walks away because she can. She is a hero. Not in the traditional sense, but she put her life on the line to protect Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

Draco blinks. Blinks again. Drops his hand.

Sitting on the ground before him, cloaked in silver mist, is a ferret. Its little hands are folded to its chest and — wow, he doesn't even remember casting the spell. Immediately, that cold voice in his head takes over and reminds him of the horrific moment when Barty Crouch Jr. transfigures him into a….

Draco sneers, but nevertheless itches the chin of his Patronus. It is very cute after all. "You just had to be a fucking ferret, didn't you?"

* * *

"Father," Draco announces after he slips on his travel cloak. His hands are clammy and won't release the hem of his robes. His face is sweaty and his eyes are shadowed. "I'm going out for a few days."

Lucius gazes up from his lap and nods with pursed lips, then gets up to go elsewhere in the tent.

Draco frowns. "I'm not leaving you, okay?"

A twitch in Lucius' shoulder. He turns back and runs a finger across his scruff. "Of course you're not. You've been practicing your Patronus. Very clever, though a bit defeatist if you ask me."

"Hmph," Draco grunts and storms out the exit.

The thing is — it's not about the Patronus — it's about the memory that inspires the Patronus, and it translates into a very different action.

* * *

It is a few days before Draco returns. When he does, he sets to work.

Lucius steps out of the tent and pauses to watch his son while tremors split in the air from his hands. "What are you doing?" he asks hoarsely.

Draco looks down. Can't quite look him in the eye. "These are no good. Been working on my Defense spells. Trust me."

"Hrm," Lucius nods and passes through the former barrier, observing his son's splayed hands. "Draco."

Draco ignores him. Removes another ward.

"_Draco_," Lucius repeats a little louder this time.

Draco pales but keeps chipping away.

Lucius grabs Draco by the front of his cloak, dragging him forward, and glaring down at him. "Dammit Draco, look at me! Do you understand the sacrifices I have made to get us as far as we have gotten?!"

Draco can't say a damned thing. He squiggles and squirms but it means nothing.

Lucius sneers. It's the most sound he's produced in a month. "How was I supposed to know that the Dark Lord would fall?! Draco, we were his right hand men and we survived!" The mania returns. Draco twitches and thrashes to break free but Lucius won't let go. It's hard to say if his father means to strangle him. It's hard to say much of anything anymore. "Tell me why you left for six days. Tell me that you studied, that you found us food, that you worked on your craft. Tell me you — "

Draco makes to say something but he's too late — a little _Pop!_ turns both of their heads.

Lucius' lips gnarl and clash. "You little shit — "

_Pop. Pop. Whizz. Bang. Pop. Pop. Pop. Bang._

Six Aurors. Lucius only knows two of them, and they happen to be Potter and Weasley. But they stand in the back and Potter is holding Lucius' wand. Lucius releases his son, not noticing how he stumbles back to regain his footing.

Draco hacks some phlegm onto the ground and looks up. It's deathly quiet. He reaches up and re-buttons his high collar. Calmly. Deep breath. But words still don't come.

Lucius' gaze burrow deep, even without eye contact. "Tell me you didn't make a deal with the Aurors."

Draco's shoulders slouch up and then fall back down. If he wants, he can use the Killing Curse to nail one of the Aurors. Preferably Potter. As hellfires rains down on the Malfoys, Draco can use his body as a shield to his father and pass the wand onto him. Lucius can kill the rest.

Ha.

Die in a blaze of glory. It's what the Dark Lord wants. It's the actions the Death Eaters _didn't _take that enraged the Dark Lord so upon his resurrection.

But Draco doesn't quite have the stomach for a Killing Curse. Not even a Crucio. No. He doesn't do that anymore. He can't feel his hate.

Draco's heels pop him off the ground, just enough to match his father. "You raised me with the understanding that I must _live my values_, Father. Hence — " He raises his hands in the air. " — hence — whatever this is."

Lucius nods.

"Go peacefully," Draco urges. "You don't have to be in there forever, you know."

Lucius' eyes narrow. "I'm forty seven years old and in ill health. But your concern is charming, son." He begins his somber march over to the Aurors. They grip him by the forearms and he turns back. "Make sure Narcissa files for the divorce."

_Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop._

Draco closes his eyes. Is that okay? Should he have said anything more? Perhaps _I love you_? Or is that disingenuine?

"Oy."

Draco looks up. Oh. _Him._

Harry Potter scratches the back of his neck, standing a fair distance away. "You know you did the right thing, right?"

Stupid illiterate Potter. Draco rolls his eyes. "Fuck off."

Draco lays it on a little too thick and Harry can't help but laugh his way out of this one. "Jesus Christ, Malfoy!" he rubs his wrist as if twisting in a lightbulb. "It's a compliment, okay?"

"Yes, yes. I did the right thing. Hooray for me. Finally learned my lesson."

Harry waits as if Draco will say something else, but Draco doesn't so he recovers fast. "Ah, gotcha. Yes. Just — erm — making sure. Right and wrong, it's confusing stu—oh forget it, I'll leave."

_Pop._

Draco rubs his jaw. Didn't realize he was clenching that whole conversation. Lightly taps it with his knuckle.

It's bizarre how fast that happened. He may never see Father again, and he feels nothing. He's more sad that he doesn't feel anything. He's never felt a damned thing his whole life and apparently this changes nothing. Now — now he just lives a life. His life?

Draco sighs and waves a hand in the air. His Patronus materializes and drops down to the ground with a loud _thud!_, tail arched high. "Well you're in luck — I don't need you to scare off the Dementors now."

The ferret just stares. Draco actually smiles at the cute thing. "But I'll let you stick around. Didn't master _Expecto Patronum _with no words or wand for no reason. Ha, if Potter knew I've aced his like _only_ good spell, why he'd — ah shit."

Draco punches his thigh.

"I should've shown off while he was still here."


End file.
